


Plums

by zelda_zee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He buys plums from the woman with the red scarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plums

He buys plums from the woman with the red scarf. She counts out six of them, puts them in a small paper bag. She tells him they are nice and ripe, ready to eat. She smiles at him when she takes his money. He tries to smile back, but can tell he doesn’t get it quite right.

He walks back to his apartment with the bag of plums clutched in his hand.

In his apartment, he takes the plums out of the bag and places them in a row on his table. They are ovoid, a dusty deep purple hue, almost black. Four have stems, one with a single leaf attached. He arranges them from largest to smallest, though the difference in size is minimal.

He stands immobile, looking at the plums. He does not know why he purchased them. He had not planned it. He had seen them from the corner of his eye, a mound of evenly shaped fruits, and the color had arrested his attention. Somehow, he had found himself standing in front of them, and the woman with the red scarf had said, “Plums?” and he had said “Yes.” and then, “Six.” and she had put them in the bag.

This is not normal. Food is for sustenance. He eats eggs, yogurt, potatoes, oatmeal, rice. Foods to fill him up and keep him functioning. Foods that will not disrupt his digestion. His digestion is easily disrupted. He learned this the hard way early on, when he was eating out of dumpsters. Before he remembered how to care for himself.

He does not buy fruit at the market. He does not make unplanned purchases.

He gets his bowl and puts it precisely in the center of the table. He picks up a plum and carefully places it in the bowl. It is slightly warm, the flesh barely giving beneath his hand. Rubbing his thumb across the skin feels good. The fruit is a little soft. There is a memory beneath the skin of the plum, in the sensation of softness. He doesn’t chase it, instead putting the remaining plums in the bowl, handling them gently so they don’t bruise.

There are only six, but it is a small bowl. He likes the way they look, piled together as they were in the market stall.

He sits on his couch and watches his plums in their bowl.

He watches them for a long time.

The light outside is dimming when he gets to his feet. The woman had said the plums were ready to eat, so he should not wait to eat them. He should eat them now.

He watches his plums for another ten minutes. He has memorized the shape and hue of each one, its slight imperfections, its position in the bowl.

He makes himself walk to the table. It is difficult. He breathes evenly, ignoring the tense, jittery feeling inside him.

He is alone, he reminds himself. No one can see him. The windows are covered. His location is secure.

He does not remember ever eating a plum.

He chooses the one on top, the largest one.  He brings it to his mouth, hesitating before biting into it. He rubs it against his lips. Again, he feels a memory beneath the skin of the plum. If he bites, will the memory reveal itself?

His teeth catch on the skin, and he almost stops. But he can do this. It is allowed. He is allowing it of himself.

There is a moment, at first, when he cannot process it. It is too much all at once, too unexpected, too complex. Juice fills his mouth, sweetness beyond his experience, then the soft pulp beneath his tongue, the tartness of the skin between his teeth. He makes a sound, mouth full, juice running down his chin. It’s something akin to a sob or a laugh, and it shocks him to hear it.

He takes another bite, and another, until the plum is gone. He licks a rivulet of juice running down his wrist and reaches for another plum.

They are good, he thinks. They taste good.

He didn’t know that he likes plums. Now he knows this one more thing about himself. He is someone who likes plums. He will write it in his notebook, later, in case he forgets. He does not want to forget this.

He eats three plums. He would like to eat them all, but will save the rest for the morning. To make sure his body can handle the fruit, that it won’t make him sick.

He eats plain rice for dinner, directly from the pan since the three remaining plums are in his bowl. Rice is insurance because it is the easiest thing for him to digest. It should make it easier for his body to handle the plums.

In the morning, he is well, so he eats the rest of the plums. They are delicious.

 

Friday is market day in the square. The woman with the red scarf is there again, her table heaped with fruit.

“Back again? Did you like the plums?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. She smiles at him, so he adds, “They were very good.”

This makes her smile grow wider.

“How many would you like?”

His face feels funny, and he realizes that he is smiling back at her, without having to try.

“I’ll take a dozen,” he says.

 


End file.
